On a Cold Winter's Night
by Sora Resi
Summary: Arthur takes a tumble on a cold winter's night, and gets a reminder that even if he tries to push people away, it doesn't mean they'll necessarily let him. Non-AU, US/UK, although could be viewed as brotherly.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Black Ice  
Pairing: Arguably US/UK, although it could be viewed as brotherly  
Warnings: Arthur's internal monologue has a pirate's vocabulary and swears  
Length: c. 5 chapters**

**Summary: Arthur takes a tumble, and gets a reminder that even if he tries to push people away, it doesn't mean they'll necessarily let him.**

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**On a Cold Winter's Night**

"Guess who's coming to pay stodgy old you a visit!" A gleeful voice pierced the peaceful silence he had been cultivating all afternoon. "I'll be there in half an -" he didn't get to finish the sentence. Arthur slammed the house phone back onto the receiver so violently that the earpiece cracked down the centre join, but he didn't care. A low growl escaped his throat, all previous happy thoughts vacating his mind and sheer rage overcoming him. He briefly contemplated simply locking up and making it appear that the house was empty, but for some inexplicable reason that never worked, and he simply ended up with a smashed window or shattered door. But that was beyond the point... who the hell did Alfred think he was? Like fuck was he going to entertain that bloody tosser! The imbecile could come and find an empty house if he thought he could drag the poor Brit along with him, or interrupt a quiet evening, every time an inane thought entered the buffoon's head!

Arthur stormed through the hallway without even thinking, forgetting about the embroidery that now lay half finished on the sofa (along with his sweater, which he'd shed in the warmth of the firelight), down the stairs and out of his front door, slamming it loudly along the way and causing the ancient oak frame to shake perilously. The wind was biting and the air frigid, compacted snow from the pitiful 'blizzard' that had been inflicted upon the country the prior day making the ground beneath his feet perilous to tread on, and the occasional patch of ice threatening to cause a short and sharp shock if one was careless. This was England - they didn't get proper snow very frequently and this was no exception, but winter often brought a lot of ice and freezing temperatures that were a lot more dangerous in the long run.

As he stalked along the footpath he scowled and swore under his breath, cursing the brat he'd had the misfortune to raise. And to think that he'd once cared for the idiot... (he still did, an unbidden voice whispered, but such a little voice was easy to dismiss in his fury).

It was getting rapidly colder, and he was soon regretting having not had the foresight to wrap up more warmly than his present lightweight shirt. Lacking a jumper or sweatshirt of any sort, his extremities soon began to become numb. However, his anger was so much that this was barely registered in his head. The roads were quiet; late in the evening on a cold winter's night was hardly the time to venture forth from one's home, and such an endeavour was a fool's errand. Anger fuelled his every thought and movement, and he muttered bitterly to himself about a certain American as he walked.

It wasn't long before Arthur was some distance from his town house, and the city soon dwindled away to suburbs as he continued to stumble angrily through the dusk. The area would be rather pleasant on any other day, but his mind was far too fogged to be aware of that fact today. Had his mind not been so preoccupied, he would have noticed the danger presented to him by the merciless cold. As it was, he felt nothing more than abject shock as his feet hit the ground after an ordinary step, only to shoot out of his control, jerking him violently towards the concrete pavement.

Spluttered curses escaped his chapped lips as he slipped on the slick ice, and he flailed his arms in a futile attempt to recapture his balance. Failing, he crashed to the cold ground loudly and forcefully, jarring his shoulder painfully and no doubt bruising his ribs if the pain was anything to go by. His elbow also made a violent impact with the ground, sending pain rocketing through his bone and grazing the exposed skin. After a few minutes of lying there stunned he forced himself upright.

Sitting pitifully on the bitingly cold concrete path with a throbbing shoulder and numb extremities and various other areas of shooting pain, he felt his anger rapidly drain into irritation and from there quickly into worry. In the time since he had left his house the sky had drained from a musky blue to inky black, relieved only by the occasional street lamp or house window. A slight throbbing in his leg also began vying for his attention as he realised with frustration that the fall had caused more damage than he'd initially picked up on. Stunned and immobilised, and with no one around, a niggling sensation of panic began to rear its head.

And in his rage he had failed to pick up his mobile; it was, he remembered morosely, in the pocket of his coat that was hanging in the hallway. He wasn't particularly fond of technology, and only used the phone when he was out and about. Scatterbrained as he was, he'd realised early on that leaving it in his coat was the only way he could guarantee he'd have it on him when he left the house.  
Unless, of course, he stormed out of the house in the fit. Well, every plan has its flaws.

He would publicly execute anyone who implied he was too old to take care of himself on principle, but sitting as he was in a cold and damp patch somewhere on the outskirts of his beloved city with pain flaring from several bodily areas and no way of getting back home, despite his youthful physical appearance he was certainly feeling a bit beyond it. It was pitiful to think that only a century prior (before the wars that had caused everyone so much damage) he'd have been able to shrug off such a minor injury... hell, during the pirate years he'd once shrugged off a lost leg and eye. Power made them invincible. It was a shame he couldn't say the same for his current state.

Stars began to appear faintly through the haze of light pollution as he sat huddled on the side of the residential road. His anger had all but dissipated at this point as he tried to figure out a way out of his predicament. Whilst he was in a residential area there did not appear to be anyone around and he was without a means of contacting anyone. The drastically increasing level of pain in his leg (a few moments of focusing had him realising the pain he'd thought was a twisted ankle was more likely either a fracture or even a full on break). Walking anywhere was certainly out of the question.

A shiver shook his body as the ambient temperature took a sudden dip. Wishing fervently once again that he'd paused long enough in his rage to have picked up a sweater and scarf (a foresight he'd endeavour to not overlook the next time he lost his rag at Alfred's tactlessness), he resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck where he was for the time being, unfavourable though his current situation may be. Watching his short breaths fog the air before him and desperately trying to ignore the pain shooting up from various nerve endings, he huddled up as much as possible without jolting too many sore spots and inwardly cursed Americans, the weather and his overall bad luck.

Freezing and feeling more tired as every minute passed, his eyes became heavy and he felt consciousness slipping away. He knew that this should worry him, but to be honest he no longer cared. Internally he berated himself; a proud, ex-empire... resigned to freeze on a cold path on the outskirts of his own city because he was too careless to watch where he was walking. How embarrassing. He'd always hoped that he'd die in a glorious war, or having at least taken that bloody frog down with him. It was be a damned shame to have lasted as long as he had to die so pitifully. As consciousness finally escaped him, he failed to hear the frantic footsteps pounding behind him, accompanied by a loud and very much worried American voice...

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_**AN: A re-write of an unfinished single chapter ('Black Ice') from exactly a year ago. I've actually got the next two chapters planned and partly written, so unlike the last one it won't be left to rot. I changed a few bits and pieces and it's going in a slightly different direction to where the original was planned. The main purpose of this is a fairly light hurt/comfort fic to help me get over my dire writer's block.**_

_**Reviews are loved, reviewers get virtual hugs and cookies.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: A million thanks to starryclimes, KassyMalone, Artemis Fenir, WelcometotheNewAge, InvaderPey and Froggiecool for reviewing! And thanks to everyone who has alerted and favourited this story, too.**_

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**Chapter 2**

He awoke warm, and as he slowly surfaced into the waking world panic rapidly followed. His last memory was on the biting and unrelenting cold. Warm was bad... wasn't it?

As the panic forced him to awaken rapidly, he became aware of other sensations: the soft and yielding mattress that his light form made only the barest of impressions upon; the smothering but gloriously warm and comforting duvet that nestled just above his chin; and the soft blanket that he generally put aside for cool evenings downstairs, wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It took all of his willpower not to sink back into sleep.

He forced his weary eyes open and took stock of his surroundings. He was in his own bedroom. The curtains were pulled shut, although he could see a faint dawn light creeping through the creases. The room was illuminated softly by his bedside lamp, a fact for which he was grateful. Now that he was fully conscious, he was made glaringly aware of such how sore and painful he was. There were the obvious injuries to his elbow, shoulder and ankle all clamouring for his undivided attention, but a deep throbbing had also taken up residence in the base of his skull, and the soft light was a blessing.

A violent blush took up residence on his face when he realised that someone had changed him out of his clothes and into a pair of his mint green pyjamas.

Shuffling upright, he didn't have to strain his ears to hear the heavy footsteps making their way loudly up his stairs. To his slow and heavy mind, it seemed that Alfred's voice was in the room before his body made an appearance.

"Oh good, you're up! I was starting to think I'd have to take you to the hospital, which would suck because I don't know where any are and I'd probably get caught infinitely in one of your crazy roundabouts anyway..."

"Huh?" He knew he probably looked gormless, but he was too tired and perplexed to care. Why on earth was Alfred here? And why was _he_ here, and not lying frozen on the ground outside? Alfred couldn't have followed him because he hadn't been even there when he'd left...

"You've been asleep for, like," he glanced at his watch, "11 hours? I was starting to think you'd hit your head or something. Uh... did you?" The American leant forward, as though to grab his head. Arthur flinched backwards. He tentatively ghosted his own fingers over his skull. Despite the pounding headche he was suffering from, he couldn't feel any distinct cuts or bumps.

"I don't think so..." He dropped his hand back to his side and yawned. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you I was coming. Are you absolutely sure ya didn't hit your head?" Arthur felt his headache worsen, although he wasn't sure if it was the stupid accent or just a consequence of being in the overly energetic man's presence.

"You know what I mean, Alfred." He sighed and felt exhaustion creeping rapidly upon him once again.

"Just being the hero, as per usual, Artie!" He was grinning ear to ear, but it diminished as Arthur gave another massive yawn. He seemed to take pity on the older man. "Y'know, if you're sure you're not concussed or anything, just go back to sleep. Neither of us have got anywhere we need to be, and you look like you're about to collapse."

"Huh, sounds like a good idea..." He slumped back into the bed. It probably wasn't the most comfortable of positions, but in his state he found it remarkably hard to care. He wriggled to alleviate the pressure on his ankle, and he was promptly fast asleep again.

_**~SR~**_

The next time Arthur woke up he did so slowly, feeling safe in the knowledge that he was in his own house. Despite the aches and pains he found himself inexplicably comfortable, and it took a substantial amount of effort not to bury back into his nest of duvet and blankets. However, he knew he'd spent far too much time sleeping already, and he refused to believe he was in such a poor state as to warrant spending any longer in bed.

Opening his sleepy eyes presented him with a picture of Alfred, curled up on a chair by the windows - curtains still pulled to - with some infernal handheld games console in his hand. The bright screen reflected off his glasses, made especially noticeable by the murky light of the bedroom. In deference to Arthur's condition, however, he had apparently opted to mute the game.

"Hey, again." He saw Alfred's shadowy figure flick the console off, and could _hear_ the smile in his voice. "You feelin' a little less sleepy now?"

"Not really." Arthur yawned, and felt his jaw crack a little. He flopped his face into the pillow, grumbling unintelligibly and more than a little petulantly. Alfred laughed. Arthur dragged himself into what was technically a sitting position just so he could scowl at the little devil. Unfortunately, Alfred seemed to take this as meaning that Arthur was well enough to be interrogated.

"I didn't really ask you before, but are you hurt, Artie? Ya've got some pretty nasty lookin' cuts and you kept flinching when I was carrying you home." Arthur frowned. Alfred had come right over to the edge of the bed, and the older man could see him quite clearly now. The American wasn't even trying to be subtle in his use of his puppy dog eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what the hell were ya doing out in this sort of weather without even a coat or anything?"

Arthur just scowled again.

"Regarding the injuries… mainly bruises, I think. And never you mind what I was doing! I'm old enough to take care of myself." Arthur knew the statement about his wounds was a lie, but he didn't want to have to deal with a fussing/panicking Alfred. He saw some trepidation in Alfred's eyes, but it was so fleeting he almost thought he'd imagined it. "I'm fine. Really." He tried to give a reassuring smile, but he was pretty sure that it ended up looking more like a grimace. Fortunately, Alfred seemed to completely miss this.

"Alright then! You think you can get up? You look like some soup'd do you some good." Realising that it had been almost a day since he'd had anything to eat, Arthur couldn't help but nod in agreement. He shifted his weight, but hissed as a shooting pain tore from a point on his lower leg and a symphony of pain erupted from his ribs. The world spun and he found himself pitching forward as he faintly heard Alfred let out a swear. Strong arms caught him before he could face plant his own bed.

"Shit! I gotcha..." He was settled back into the bed by Alfred, and forced to lie down. He couldn't find himself able to complain, and instead just lay there silently as he waited for the world to come back into focus.

"Bruises don't cause that kind of reaction, Artie..." The older man felt his face flush at Alfred's undisguised concern. He refused to meet the younger man's eyes, and found himself unconsciously fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket that had fallen onto his lap when he'd sat up.

"Arthur?" He still didn't respond, and instead flipped on his side and buried his head in the duvet, conveniently hiding the wince that such an action caused. He heard Alfred shift, and flinched when a large hand was placed on his shoulder. Maybe if he was really quiet he could just pretend to have fallen asleep?

"Art? I know you're awake... I can feel you shaking. How badly are you hurt?" His voice was calm and coaxing, as though talking to a frightened animal. Apparently he wasn't going to let up. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, but propped himself up and forced himself to look in Alfred's direction.

"Umm... I think I might have broken my ankle? My ribs feel pretty bloody sore too, my elbow too. And my shoulder hurts, but I'm fairly sure that it actually _is_ only bruised." Alfred's frown deepened and he leaned over the edge of the bed, removing the duvet from Arthur's grasp and leaving the smaller man open to the cool air again. The house was heated, so why did he still feel so damn cold?

He flinched as Alfred's calloused fingers brushed over his aching ribs and throbbing shoulder. His caress was soft, but still indescribably uncomfortable on the tender flesh. It only took Alfred applying the gentlest of pressures on his ankle to produce an involuntary cry of pain. Instinct overcame the Brit as he violently tried to pull away from the probing fingers, but this simply resulted in even more pain. He hadn't even realised that he'd closed his eyes until he heard Alfred move and found himself opening them to see what he was doing.

He was still frowning heavily. Arthur felt a bubbling guilt settle in the base of his stomach. That was not an expression that deserved a place on such a young and carefree face.

"Al-Alfred?" He looked up at him with wide eyes. His name seemed to shock him out of his stupor, and the younger man seemed to finally noticed that Arthur was shivering quite violently as he pulled the duvet back over him without saying anything else.

"Where's your coat, Arthur?"

"W-why?" He was in his pyjamas, and hardly in any fit state to leave the house.

"Coat, Arthur. We're going to the hospital."

"I don't need to go to the hospital! I'm fine. I've suffered far worse than this in the past. Just let me sleep it off..."

"No. This isn't the middle ages, Arthur, and you're not an empire any more, either. Just because you were used to dealing with this sort of thing back when you were big or had no choice other than to bear it, doesn't mean that you should suffer _now._ And you're shaking... a lot. I think you might be in shock." He paused. "Although maybe it's just because you're so damn tiny…"

"But-" Arthur choked out, before being cut off.

"_No._ We're not arguing." Arthur gave a shaky sigh, completely thrown by the serious look on Alfred's face.

"Fine. Whatever, I'm too tired to argue with you." He scowled sullenly at the younger man.

"You've been asleep for almost a whole _day_. The fact that you're still tired is really worrying me." Arthur just shrugged.

"That's how my body recovers. And my coat is in the hallway, same place as it always is."

He refused to look at Alfred as he left the room. Sinking back into the duvet, he savoured the last moment of peace he was going to get for some time.

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**_AN: Thanks for reading! Reviewers get virtual hugs and even virtualer cookies._**

**_And I plan on updating this fic once a week, mainly because it's coming up to harvest so I have less time across the week to write, and so one update a week is a lot less stressful for me._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_AN: Thank you to KassyMalone, Indythewolf, WelcometotheNewAge, alchemisthetaliapirates, Artemis Fenir, InvaderPey and Froggiecool for reviewing the last chapter! :)_**

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**Chapter 3**

Arthur found himself being bundled into the car with an almost unheard of level of gentleness. He felt cold and tired, although this was somewhat mitigated when Alfred put the heating on full blast. He buried himself in his comfortingly familiar coat, tucking his arms up the sleeves of the sweater Alfred had retrieved from his sofa so as to keep his fingers away from the winter's chill. He had to force himself to stay awake so that he could give Alfred directions to the nearest hospital with a 24 hour accident and emergency facility. He still felt dizzy and light-headed, and the streetlamps whizzing past weren't helping in the slightest. A brief glance at the clock above the CD player told him that it was just past seven in the evening… so he had stormed out of his house just under a day ago.

Bored, but refusing to waste any more time asleep, he reached into one of the coat's pockets and brought out his phone. It was actually a fairly new model – at Alfred's insistence, of course – although he didn't have any clue how to do anything with it other than call and text. Apparently it had he internet on it, but he'd certainly never found it. Instead, he contented himself with searching through the various menus and finding some mind-numbing game, occasionally responding to Alfred's requests for directions. The distraction took his mind off his broken bones and bruises, if only momentarily.

Time seemed to fly once Arthur had absorbed himself in the game he'd found, and before he knew it the car purred to a halt and he was guided, somewhat disgruntled, out of the vehicle and into the hospital by an overly attentive Alfred.

Upon entering the hospital and being steered unwillingly by Alfred's firm hand on his uninjured elbow, he opened his mouth only to remind Alfred that they had national healthcare and didn't have to farce around with insurance before leaving the younger man to talk to the A&E receptionist. He tuned out, staring at the muddy tiled floor and curling in on himself in an attempt to retain warmth. The weather had not improved in his time asleep, and the air outside had been as frigid and unrelenting as ever.

The waiting room was full of morose and dour people, and Arthur did not look forward to having to wait several hours to see a doctor who would simply tell him everything he already knew. Mentally resigned to his fate, he was shocked when – instead of being dragged down onto an uncomfortable plastic chair - he was actually led onwards into the hospital.

"Alfred?" He looked up at him quizzically. The younger man looked down, smiling cockily.

"You might avoid it at all costs, but I don't care. If we're going to get all these advantages because of our status we may as well use them, Artie." Arthur couldn't actually bring himself to disagree, if only because he hated hospital waiting rooms only marginally less than he hated fast food, the French, and queue-jumpers.

They were led through a maze of off-white corridors, before being shown into one of a hundred identical rooms. It looked cold and clinical and there was a suspicious stain in the one corner that Arthur didn't even dare ask about. He peered around the room before quickly growing bored, and went back to staring at the floor blankly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alfred pull his mobile from his jacket pocket; it had been buzzing at intervals ever since they had entered the A&E, although Alfred had ignored it up until the point.

As the nurse settled him on the edge of a hard and unforgivingly rigid hospital bed, Arthur saw Alfred glance as the phone before quietly excusing himself from the room. He didn't go very far, though, and upon straining his ears slightly, Arthur could faintly hear his one sided phone conversation.

"Hey, Mattie… yea, I'm fine – he's fine too… we're at the hospital… probably a few broken bones and bruises. Tell Francis… stop spamming my inbox, 'kay? … thanks bro… yeah, yeah, I'll keep you updated… bye!"

The nurse had left to fetch the doctor by the time this little conversation was over, and Alfred came back into the room. Arthur was curious.

"Matthew and Francis?" Alfred dropped the phone back in his pocket and gave a small smile.

"Hm, yeah. I spoke to them when you were asleep earlier. They're worried about you."

Arthur frowned.

"Matthew I can understand, but Francis?" Alfred held his hands up, placatingly.

"Don't look so surprised… they were both really concerned when I told them, especially when they found out you weren't waking up. Francis said I should take you to the hospital straight away – and I should have listened." His face fell.

"It's really not that bad," Arthur tried to reassure him. "I probably could have just slept it off. Francis always makes a lot of fuss over nothing… he is rather a drama queen."

"I don't think someone sitting there with half a dozen broken bones and bruises the size of baseballs can talk about fussing over nothing." He watched as Alfred effortlessly picked up a chair from the other side of the room and dragged it over to the side of the hospital bed, collapsing in it somewhat dramatically. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You're exaggerating."

"No, I'm really not, Artie."

He was about to launch into an argument with the younger man when the nurse poked her head back into the room and informed them that the doctor would be with them shortly. Arthur sighed, and felt himself slump. He wasn't looking forward to being prodded and poked. He'd much rather be back home and in his own bed. He wanted to blame Alfred; he was the one who had dragged him here, after all, but then… had Alfred not been following him, he probably wouldn't have made it home at all. He'd have been left on that cold, hard pavement until he'd froze, or some passing person had taken pity on him, and who knows how long that would have taken? This pondering, of course, prompted another question.

"How did you know where I was going?"

"Huh?" Alfred jolted upright, and Arthur felt a smidgen of guilt. He hadn't realised it before now, but Alfred was looking pretty tired himself, and he'd apparently been dropping off to sleep in the chair. He sighed again, but decided to drop the issue. It could wait until they were back at home and both well-rested.

"Never mind. You're tired, Alfred. Go home. I'm sure I'm in capable hands." He forced a smile and tried not to think about the fact that every nerve was screaming at him. Alfred just looked at him as though he'd grown a second head.

"No chance. You're stuck with me Artie, whether you like it or not." He stifled a yawn, which in turn made Arthur yawn and feel the full weight of exhaustion again after a few blissful minutes of having forgotten. He grumbled, but didn't bother arguing. When Alfred settled his mind on doing something, a herd of rampaging bison couldn't stop him. Something that had happened on more than one occasion during his childhood, if Arthur recalled correctly.

Both men jumped as the door was pushed open, and they were greeted with an inexplicably cheery man in a white coat who introduced himself as Dr. Tyler. He didn't dawdle, and marched straight over to Arthur. As he began to manhandle the small nation, he asked questions - directed at Alfred, which annoyed Arthur no end, although he was too busy hissing and squeaking as the good doctor pulled and twisted incredibly sensitive areas - as to how Arthur had ended up in this state.

It was to many complaints that Arthur was wrestled into a hospital-grade wheelchair and rolled by a far too gleeful Alfred to the x-ray department, where he was probed mercilessly and unrelentingly again before being returned to his room.

The final verdict was a broken elbow, a fractured ankle, a fractured shoulder, 3 cracked ribs and a metric tonne of bruises. He was soundly informed that the next few weeks would consist of bed rest, before he was forced to sit back on the bed as a nurse was called so that he could get all the necessary casts.

Tense and not looking forward to the next step, Arthur found himself stealing glances in Alfred's direction, seeking some form of comfort. After the fourth or so, the younger man noticed this and gave him an encouraging smile. He tried to smile back, but it was shaky and unconvincing. Alfred frowned, then left the room briefly, telling Arthur that he was going to have a word with the nurse. It wasn't long before he had returned. He sat back down and placed a calming hand over Arthur's.

"They're gonna give you your painkillers a bit early, okay? Usually they'd wait a few more minutes, but you look like you're gonna have a panic attack." Arthur blinked in mild shock, but gave a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"No problem. Hero, remember?" Alfred grinned, and before Arthur was even aware of what he was doing, he found himself leaning against the younger man. He told himself it was just to reassure himself, especially as he saw the nurse come in with a worryingly big needle at hand.

An injection of something quite pleasant and numbing left Arthur with drooping eyes, and he was unable to protest as Alfred forced him down into the scratchy and uncomfortable hospital bed whilst the nurse fussed and a doctor began setting his broken bones. Fortunately, the combination of exhaustion and the painkiller had a powerful effect, and he wasn't awake long enough to see the end of this

_**~SR~**_

It seemed that Arthur's ears had woken up before any other part of his body. Fuzzily rousing into consciousness, he could vaguely hear Alfred and... someone with a deep voice talking, somewhere over his head.

"When's he gonna wake up?"

"Shortly, I should hope. The dosage of painkiller was a quite bit higher than it should have been-" Recognition flickered through his addled brain; it was Dr. Tyler, from earlier.

"-what do you mean?! How the he-"

"-Because his weight is substantially lower than we initially thought, even though we dropped the dose to begin with anyway." There was a pause.

"What… exactly does that mean?" There was the sound of someone exhaling deeply.

"Mr Kirkland is severely underweight and suffering from malnourishment. The actual reasons why he is in this state are unknown at the moment, although there are a few possibilities." There was another pause. This one somehow seemed deeper than the last.

"Oh."

"A nurse will be in to check on him shortly. I'd advise you take the chance to get some food before he wakes up."

"Right... thanks, I guess."

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. Arthur frowned mentally, but with the painkiller still swimming around his body pleasantly he was unable to show that on his actual face. He heard a shifting as Alfred got out of his chair and footsteps as he walked towards the door, obviously he was taking the doctor's advice. As he was left in silence, Arthur sighed to himself quietly before allowing himself to slip under again.

He wasn't looking forward to the conversation when he woke up.

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_**AN: Artie's gonna get a lectuuuuure~**_

_**The last time I went to a hospital was for appendicitis when I was about 8, so I winged it in terms of precedure and whatnot. Also, I'm now officially 20! It's not all that amazing or different from being 19, to be honest..**_

_**Favourites/follows are loved, reviewers are loved even more :3**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: Thanks to Erienn, WelcometotheNewAge, Artemis Fenir, Indythewolf, InvaderPey and Froggiecool for reviewing the last chapter!**_

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**Chapter 4**

Arthur was awake when Alfred stumbled back into the room, half a sandwich and a can of coke still in hand. There was a pause as the two stared at each other, although Arthur couldn't meet his gaze after a few seconds, and instead ended up staring down at the scratchy blanket that was pulled up to his waist.

Alfred threw himself into the chair, metal legs screeching painfully against the tiled floor and making Arthur cringe. An instinctive attempt to cover his ears left him gasping in pain as he jolted his left arm - now in a sling - and in the corner of his eye he saw Alfred lean over, concerned.

"So…" Alfred began. Arthur opened his mouth, about to respond, when the door was pushed open and a man in a white coat entered the room. He recognised him as Doctor Tyler from earlier, although most of his memories immediately preceding the dose of painkiller were rather foggy, and the memories from after even less distinct.

"Ah, you're awake, Mr. Kirkland." He had a clipboard in his one hand, that he consulted casually and absolutely uncaring of the two gazes boring a hole through his skull. Arthur noted Alfred's look, and figured that he had become somewhat more acquainted with the doctor during his time asleep. "I'm going to get straight to the point. Whilst you were admitted to the hospital for the injuries you sustained whilst falling the other day, since you have been here other issues have arisen. Are you aware how underweight you are?"

Arthur stared down at his lap, refusing to look at the doctor.

"Yes…"

"And you didn't seek any help for the matter before now?"

"No? I have it under control."

"Maybe you have up until now," It was obvious he was not trying to rile Arthur, but it wasn't working, "but you're well below the weight someone of your age and height would be expected to be, and it's having a drastic impact on your health."

"Will he need to see a therapist?" At this point, Arthur stopped giving a damn about common manners.

"I don't have an eating disorder," He interjected angrily, cutting into their conversation. "I'm not screwed up in the head, and I'm not some melodramatic teenager. I'm _fine_, understand?" He yelled the last part, and once he'd finished the room fell into a deep and awkward silence. Alfred looked away, almost guiltily. The quiet didn't last long.

"What do we need to do?" He asked, pointedly ignoring the petulant scowl Arthur threw his way.

"Well, even though you're dreadfully malnourished, as long as you start eating full meals three times a day, there's no reason why you should have to remain in the hospital. This sort of thing is better cured in a familiar environment."

"So you think he'll be okay if he just starts eating again?"

"He'll have to come back to the hospital periodically for check ups. Long terms effects of starvation can result in heart abnormalities that we'll need to keep a close eye on. At the moment there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with his heart, though. That being said, if he continues to have issues with eating - and especially if he refuses - he'll likely end up being committed to a facility that specialises in these sorts of issues." He looked Arthur in the eye. "We're giving you the benefit of the doubt in this instance, but if your companion comes to believe that you are suffering an eating disorder and that you aren't improving, we will have to take the necessary steps from there."

Arthur grit his teeth and frowned, but didn't say anything else. It seemed he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and of the two he'd much rather suffer Alfred than this hospital.

Doctor Tyler made a few more notes on his clipboard before telling them he'd prescribed painkillers and iron supplements and that they would be available from the pharmacy when he signed out of the hospital. Then he'd left the room, footsteps echoing on the warped linoleum floor, leaving Arthur and Alfred to their own thoughts. Alfred promptly drew his phone out of his pocket and started doing god knows what. Arthur simply tried to calm himself and dissipate some of the anger bubbling through his veins.

Arthur's head hurt. Despite having slept for what felt like days (and was, in reality, a good day and a bit) he still felt shattered, and the hospital air was cold and made his already chilled skin feel even colder. The sheets were too crisp, with no softness or comfort. The only thing that made this even slightly bearable was Alfred's presence, not that he'd ever vocalise this.

Damn, this bed was stiff. It was making his lower back ache something rotten.

Sighing, he tried to shift into a more relaxed position, but the hospital bed did not lend itself to such a thing and it just left him disgruntled. Apparently his huffing and puffing drew Alfred's attention away from his phone, because by the time he'd given up and crossed his one good arm across his chest bitterly the younger man was peering at him with one eyebrow raised.

"You alright?"

"No. How long until I can leave this infernal place?"

"Soon, I guess. Y'know, you need to explain what you meant earlier. You seem pretty insistent that you haven't got some disorder or another. Even though all the evidence points towards you having one."

"Huh?" Alfred's statement distracted Arthur from his renewed wriggling. There was an itch under his ankle cast, and the entire world (and a large chunk of plaster) was conspiring against him being relieved of it.

There was a pause as he let his brain catch up with his ears. He let out a deep breath. When he began to talk he purposely kept his face away from Alfred's gaze.

"I meant that it's not really an eating disorder... well, not as you'd think of one. When I was younger I used to live off what I could find, and often I'd go hungry." There was a nostalgic smile with a hint of fondness. "Then things improved and it wasn't so bad, but the mentality never really left. Do you understand? And then things happened; rebellions, wars, monarchy feuds - I ended up shackled in my own tower more than enough times - and it just became a sort of state base of being that I didn't have enough to eat so I learned to function without. And then there were the two world wars and rationing and it just made it worse... I don't consciously starve myself, Alfred," And at this point the bit the bullet and looked the younger man in the face. "But it's like my body doesn't register when I'm hungry any more. And that means that if I'm not paying attention, food completely slips my mind. I've been especially busy in the last few years - because of the economy, you understand - so apparently I've missed more than my fair share of meals. Usually I just bounce back whenever the issue at hand has been resolved..."

"- but this has been going on for so long you haven't had that chance, right?"

Arthur shrugged and gave a slight smile.

"It's really not that bad. A few good meals and I'll be fine."

"That's the thing, Artie... I don't think you will be. You're not just underweight - you're practically emaciated. It's going to take a helluva lotta work to get you healthy again. And to be honest, I don't trust you to do that on your own."

Arthur frowned.

"I've managed quite fine on my own up until this point, Alfred. I don't need you to baby-sit me. I can take care of myself."

"I think it's pretty fricken clear that you can't!"

"You litt-"

"No, Arthur." Alfred cut him off. The fact that he was using Arthur's full name and not some ridiculous nickname was sobering, and Arthur found himself lost for words briefly. Alfred clearly considered this a serious matter.

"I don't care what you think. If you're not eating properly and it's making you ill, it's a disorder. Just because it's not one of the well known ones, doesn't mean you're not ill."

"Are you trying to say I'm wrong in the head?" Arthur found himself growling, hackles raising at the insinuation.

"Yes. And until we've fixed you, I'm not going anywhere, understood?"

Arthur snorted in bitter mirth.

"Really? You're being ridiculous. Even when we're being civil to each other you get bored of me within a day."

"Not this time!"

"Yeah, right."

"You don't believe me, but that's just tough. Cause I'm not going anywhere, understood?"

"I'll give you two days, three at the most."

Alfred grinned, and for some inexplicable reason Arthur felt his stomach drop slightly.

"It's on, old man."

_**~SR~**_

Alfred was being overbearing, to say the least. Upon the pair of them having arrived at home, he'd dumped Arthur in his room and promptly left with his wallet, returning a couple of hours later with what looked like a good five trolleys worth of food. Of course, being the over-powered idiot that he was, he somehow managed to carry all the bags in at once. Arthur was impressed that none of the flimsy bags had snapped - they always did for him. Maybe he was just cursed.

The doctors had given him some painkillers that weren't enough to knock him out, but had a habit of making him space out more than usual, much to Alfred's amusement and worry. He'd sauntered up the stairs with a tray of 'delights' (overly-greasy American food, in reality) only to spend 5 minutes waving his hands in front of Arthur's face. He had finally resorted to physically and quite violently shaking the smaller man, which had brought him around with a screech of pain as he jostled not only his bad elbow and shoulder, but also the cracked ribs that were making even lying down a misery. It had then taken a further five minutes for him to stop cursing and for the pain to subside, before Alfred threw the tray down on his lap and demanded he eat it.

All of it.

"No bloody way."

"You're eating it, Artie. End of."

"I repeat. No. Bloody. Way."

"Artiiiiiie."

"I know you're well intentioned, Alfred, but that is enough food to feed a small family. It would take me a week to eat it all!"

"It's not that much…"

"Maybe not to you. To anyone who doesn't have a black hole where their stomach should be, that's several meals in one." Alfred pouted, but Arthur refused to cave. He sighed. "We can share?" He knew immediately that this was the right thing to say; Alfred's face lit up and he launched himself forward towards the tray. Arthur couldn't help but laugh. It was odd to feel so lighter hearted. Apparently it drew Alfred out of his food-induced mania, because he stopped and smiled too.

"You pick what you wanna eat first, and I'll have whatever you don't want, okay?"

"Sounds good." Arthur grabbed the plate of pancakes, safe in the knowledge that Alfred had learned how to make them from Matthew and that they would have at least a little less lard in them than the plates of bacon, burgers and eggs. This train of thought prompted the question: "Have you heard from Matthew or Francis since the hospital?" He had to wait a few seconds until Alfred had finished the massive mouthful of food he'd taken. Once he'd swallowed, he nodded in affirmation.

"Yup. They've texted me a few times, especially since the doctor told me about the whole weight issue."

"You told them?!"

"Uh, yes? It's kinda important, y'know. And if I have to go anywhere, it means Francis can take care of you." Arthur spluttered in indignation.

"I'm not some child! And you most certainly are not allowed to pawn me off to other nations just because I'm a little unwell, especially not that bloody pervert!" Alfred frowned.

"Well, I clearly can't trust you to feed yourself. And I know that you pretend to hate Francis, but you guys have known each for forever. I figured that out of anyone in Europe, he would be the one you'd be able to deal with, right?" Arthur grunted, but refused to admit that he was right. When had Alfred become so perceptive? Along with the ridiculously possessive and caring behaviour of the last few days, it was rather disconcerting.

Instead of thinking too much into the matter, he instead opted to dive into his plate of pancakes instead. They were thick and absolutely drenched in maple syrup and butter. Despite how tasty they were, Arthur had barely made it halfway through before giving up and calling it quits. Alfred frowned, but luckily didn't say anything and focused on finishing his own food. Once he was done, he took the empty and nearly-empty plates back downstairs, leaving Arthur alone.

Wrapped up in his own duvet, another one Alfred had liberated from the airing cupboard and more blankets than Alfred had common sense, Arthur sighed to himself. He wasn't sure how he was going to cope with this.

Even now his stomach was churning unpleasantly. If Alfred kept trying to stuff him full of food, he didn't know how he'd survive.

* * *

_**AN: Anyway, so that's my personal canon regarding Arthur being small/underweight. I wouldn't want to write about anorexia or bulimia - having never suffered from it myself, I wouldn't want to trivialise what is really a major health issue. Anyway, and can see Arthur suffering this sort of issue fairly easily, between all the crap that's gone down in his history.**_

_**It's about 30 degrees Celsius here and I'm dying. I can't believe people live in places that exceed this... O.o **__**Revive me with reviews and love! ;)**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: Thanks to KassyMalone, InvaderPey, Antheia Gwynn, Froggiecool, Erienn, Artemis Fenir, WelcometotheNewAge and Ariddle-Ascare for reviewing the last chapter! New record for reviews in a single chapter! :D**_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

For the first time in days, Arthur found himself completely unable to fall asleep. He tossed and turned, very much conscious of the cacophony of aches and pains shooting from various points whenever he applied pressure to tender areas, but it was to little avail. Despite it being a cold winter's night in his little cottage without central heating, he felt overly warm and his duvet was suffocating. It had subsequently been relegated to the floor, along with his blanket and one of his pillows. His sheet was a ruffled mess, but still on his bed for now.

He grunted, then pushed himself upright and out of the bed. Further inspection in the bathroom mirror informed him that his face was flushed, although he couldn't be bothered to dig out a thermometer and find out exactly how bad it was. Instead, he wandered wobbly down the stairs, carefully trying to avoid waking up Alfred in the guest room, with a cup of tea firmly in mind.

The stairs creaked slightly with each step, and the only illumination was that of faint streetlights from the windows. Arthur was not inclined to leave lights on at night, despite insistence from various friends that it made him a target for thieves and other unscrupulous people. What would the great nation of England have to fear from mere humans? And it wasn't like the unicorn and fae weren't protection enough...

Although they were all suspiciously absent this night. Alfred's presence had a habit of doing that; they felt antsy and unwelcome in the company of someone so strongly disbelieving of their existence that they were prone to abandoning Arthur and the house if ever he came for extended visits, much to Arthur's frustration. They always left right at the very time that he would need their calming presences the most.

He didn't have to strain his eyes in the dark to find the light - it had been in the same place ever since he'd had electrics fitted in the ancient building several decades prior - and a soft light lit up the kitchen. He sighed when he spotted the debris of plates and mugs that Alfred inevitably trailed behind him wherever he went, but resigned himself to dealing with it in the morning... if Alfred even let him leave his bed. The younger nation had been so painfully overbearing for the last couple of days that he'd had a hard time even convincing the idiot to let him use the bathroom alone. Was he convinced that Arthur would collapse if he was alone for even a moment? It was unbelievably frustrating, to say the least, and Arthur had rousted the young idiot several times, to no response other than rumbling laughter and ignoring smiles.

Grumbling quietly to himself so as not the wake the sleeping moron, Arthur topped the kettle up and flicked the switch, putting a teabag in his favourite chunky mug and resting against the worktop as he waited for the water to boil. His head felt light and dizzy, and the counter was reassuring to balance against.

Moving only to acquire milk, he finished making the cuppa and settled down at the table, nursing it quietly. Loathe though he was the admit it, he wasn't feeling particularly well at all. However, pride and stubbornness prevented him from going upstairs and waking up Alfred. The boy needed his sleep, especially after forcefully waiting on Arthur hand and foot during the day. And anyway, apparently 3 in the morning was the only time he could get some peace from the overly-energetic nation.

He huffed again, peering down into his remaining tea as though it held the answer to all of life's mysteries. Why was Alfred so insistent on helping him? He had been positive their relationship had been irreparably damaged by the whole Revolutionary war thing, even if things had been going a little better since the world wars… after all, Alfred had come and given his assistance, even if it was somewhat delayed. But then, that didn't mean Alfred liked him. He'd already made it very much clear that the idea of being Arthur's brother was absolutely sickening, so why on earth did he spend so much time hanging around the older nation? Did he have some long-term plan of seeping away his sanity until Arthur had no choice but to surrender to the USA? Was this some extended plot of revenge against Arthur for everything that had happened? He wasn't sure his cooking was bad enough to warrant that sort of malice, no matter how much of it Alfred had been forced to eat as a child…

Eh, his head hurt too much to be thinking too heavily on the matter. Alfred was here, whether Arthur liked it or not, and he'd made it very clear that nothing Arthur did or said was going to change this fact. Arthur was convinced he had some ulterior motive; no one had cared for his health or eating habits before now - excluding the frog and his thwarted attempts to convert him to French cuisine, the bastard - but he couldn't for the life of him fathom what. Did Alfred really have nothing better to do than stay with his ex big brother indefinitely? They both knew this… issue… wasn't going to magically disappear overnight.

He went to take another sip, only to realise forlornly that the cup of tea had been finished and that he'd have to get up to acquire another one. Exhaling deeply and steeling himself, he used the table to pull himself upright, pausing for a few moments to try and regain equilibrium. It didn't seem to work too well, but he still felt uncomfortably warm and knew sleep was a hopeless dream, and the only thing this night had going for it was the possibility of another cup of tea, so he ignored the warning blackness creeping in the corner of his eyes and began making his way back towards the kettle.

A mistake, as it was. Everything swayed violently and he was too far away from either the table or the work top to grab hold of anything, so instead he fell ungainly and loudly to the floor. The resounding thump was apparently enough to awaken the sleeping American upstairs, because a few stunned moments after he'd faceplanted the floor Arthur could hear stumbling and pounding feet as someone who didn't understand the concept of 'quiet' stormed downstairs.

"Artie! You okay?!"

"M'fine…" he said to the floor. Strong arms dragged him to his feet and he was greeted with a panicked face. He pitched forward as the whole world swayed again, and ending up leaning into Alfred, face pressed against his chest. When had he gotten to tall…?

"You don't look fine." He felt a calloused hand pressed against his forehead, and leant into the cooling touch without even realising he was doing it.

"You have a temperature."

"You think I didn't know that?" He mumbled, in vague irritation. He didn't have to look up to know that Alfred was rolling his eyes.

"C'mon, you should be lying down somewhere. What were you doing down here at this time in the night, anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep, wanted t' get a cuppa tea…"

"You should have woken me up. I'd have got one for you." He could hear the younger man frowning.

"I needed to get out of my room before I melted," Arthur replied, as a yawn broke through. It was contagious, and he swore he could hear Alfred stifling a yawn of his own. He stumbled over his feet a few times as he was led into the living room. The whole world felt slightly off-kilter.

Arthur slumped on the sofa with barely a mutter of discontent. His clothes felt sticky and clung to his body unpleasantly, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his overly-warm skin. The room was dark until Alfred flicked on a table lamp, before leaving the room silently. It was unnerving, but Arthur was too dizzy to question Alfred on what he was doing and instead flopped down onto the cushions and sighed.

It didn't take long for Alfred to return, a serious look on his face and a thermometer in hand. He didn't ask permission before wedging it in the older man's mouth, and Arthur was too tired to do anything than scowl half-heartedly. Once it had been long enough the thermometer was removed and Alfred inspected it under the meagre light, frown deepening. He could see the younger man mouthing something silently, before realising to faint amusement that he was probably having a hard time translating Celsius to Fahrenheit. He raised a lethargic eyebrow. Alfred seemed to give up, bringing the thermometer back to Arthur and showing him the results.

"38.6? That's about..." His muddled and over-heated brain paused for a second. "101 and a half in Fahrenheit?"

"That's not good. How do you feel?"

"Like crap." He slumped back into the sofa, probably in an over-dramatic manner, but he didn't really give a damn. Every cell in his body was screaming for sleep, but the desire to cool down and rid himself of the unpleasant effects of the fever overrode that, leaving him uncomfortable and grouchy. A brief glance at the clock on his mantle informed him that a whole half an hour had passed since he'd vacated his bed.

He hadn't even realised that Alfred had left the room until he came back, silent as the ghosts of which he was so afraid, with a bowl and washcloth at hand.

"Lie down, Arthur." He followed the instructions placidly, shifting from his technically-upright-but-only-just position to his side and onto his back, sprawling across the sofa. The simple act of lying down made an amazing difference with regards to the dizziness and he sighed in relief. A deeper sigh, almost an orgasmic groan, was released when Alfred placed the cool cloth on his flushed forehead.

Alfred chuckled. "That nice?"

"Hmmm…" The usual urge to strangle Alfred for making an inappropriate comment was all but non-existent. The sheer wonderfulness of the cool cloth, along with an overly-attentive Alfred, had sent Arthur into a state of bliss that he was reluctant to vacate. Fortunately, Alfred didn't press the issue. Instead, he simply sat next to Arthur, occasionally removing the cloth to quiet mumbles and dipping it back in the cool water - Arthur could hear the faint clinking of ice cubes. At some point Alfred had began to card his fingers through Arthur's hair, and before he realised it, he was drifting off to sleep. His last distinct recollection was of a thin blanket being draped over him, and Alfred's hand resting gently on his forehead.

_**~SR~**_

He awoke before the sun had broken through the murky pre-dawn. He still felt slightly too warm, and he smelt strongly of sweat and other unpleasant smells associated with night-long fevers. Alfred had fallen asleep on the floor besides the sofa, and Arthur didn't bother trying to hide the affectionate smile this realisation produced. He'd stayed with him all night…

He managed to get upright without too much trouble. He still felt slightly light-headed, but he figured that was more from dehydration than anything else, and that was something easily enough solved with a morning cup of tea. Once that was sorted, he failed at manhandling the oblivious American onto the sofa - the cast was becoming a rotten hindrance, as far as he was concerned - then threw a few spare blankets over him instead and decided that a shower would do him a world of good.

He locked the door, perfectly aware that if he didn't Alfred would end up barging in and mortifying the both of them. Then he flicked the shower on to heat up and stripped. The old and sweat-soaked clothes were tossed unceremoniously in a heap by the toilet, to be dealt with later when he felt up to it. Just as he was about to step into the cubicle, he caught a passing glance of himself in the mirror.

And froze.

It was scary, actually. He hadn't really noticed it before; not in this way. He'd known he was underweight, but he'd never really _looked_ at himself. He'd never seen the ribs sticking out, or the dip from his diaphragm down to in concave stomach, or the hip bones jutting out through pale and stretched skin…

For the first time since he'd been in the hospital, Arthur saw what Alfred was seeing, and it scared him.

* * *

_**AN: Thanks for reading! Looks like it'll be one the hottest days so far this year... time to crack the ice cream out and retreat to basement-level, I think.**_

_**Erienn: Names are something I'm terrible at, and the first thing that came to mind when I thought 'Doctor' was 'Doctor Who' (I'm British, so sue me :P) and then Rose Tyler, so it was an amalgamation of that.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: Thanks to KassyMalone, aquamarinetiger98, Antheia Gwynn, WelcometotheNewAge, Erienn, Artemis Fenir and alchemisthetaliapirates for reviewing the last chapter!**_

_**I'm a day late posting this, and I was doing so well up until this point... at least it's the longest chapter so far, if only marginally.**_

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Alfred whooped. "Totally pwned you, old man!"

Arthur was curled up on the sofa, whilst Alfred was flopped on the floor and leaning up against it. The screen in front of them was flashing lights and making various noises that clearly meant something to the American, even if they were senseless to Arthur himself. All he knew was that apparently this meant that Alfred had won that round.

"'Pawned'? What the hell does that mean?"

"Like, I totally owned you..."

He was met with a vacant stare. He seemed to realise this wasn't working.

"Like, I totally whooped your ass." He grinned. Arthur scowled. He could hear a tinkling chuckle from one of his fae friends to his left, but he ignored it. A couple had popped up since the previous night's pondering, but he couldn't acknowledge their existence whilst Alfred was in the room. They never took it personally; after the last time and the subsequent close-call lobotomy, they understood that it was for the best if he didn't try to talk to them whilst around other nations who couldn't sense their presence. They generally made up for it by being as noisy and demanding as possible whenever he was on his own, but he never minded. He was very fond of his fae friends. He tuned out the whimsical and faint voices, instead focusing back on Alfred.

"It's not surprising," he said mildly. "It's obvious you'd win, seeing as you've spent your entire life playing these ridiculous games."

"Hah! You're just jealous that you can't beat me." Arthur just shrugged.

"I've had enough of combat in the last century, thanks. I don't understand your fixation with making fighting games."

"Eh, they're fun, and I get to show the whole world how superior I am!"

"That's nice." His attention was starting to drift and he picked up a book that was placed on the table by the sofa, settling the controller down in his lap as he tuned back out of the conversation. Sensing that the moment had been lost, Alfred put his down too and instead opted to watch his elder, casting a critical eye over his slight form. There was improvement, but it was barely noticeable.

"You hungry?"

"Only a little bit." Alfred frowned.

"We might have to go back to the doctor."

"What?! Why?!"

"'Cause you're not eating, and I'm not going to let you starve yourself!"

"I am eating, you bloody great buffoon! Just because I don't gorge myself to the point of vomiting, doesn't mean I'm starving myself!"

The atmosphere in the room went from being fairly light-hearted to dark so quickly Arthur almost felt dizzy. Alfred had dropped his controller on the floor and had arched his back so he could turn around and look Arthur in the face.

"Stop lying. You barely eat anything. You think I don't watch you? That I haven't been watching every thing you eat ever since you got out of hospital?" Arthur stuttered and choked, temporarily lost for words. He threw the book down on the table and pushed himself up to his feet. Fortunately, one of the perks of being a nation was accelerated healing, so even though he still looked one breeze away from being blown over, a majority of his injuries had dissolved into mere bruises and passing aches. For a brief moment he was taller than the sitting Alfred.

"I'm eating just fine, thank you very much! And you would do well to remember that, whilst you may be 'taking care' of me, I'm still an adult and still capable to deciding what is and is not good for myself! I'm eating plenty. You just have a warped perception of how much a grown man should consume each day. That's _your_ problem, not mine."

"I'm not going to let you starve yourself, Arthur! Not again!" The elder nation scoffed.

"Get it through your thick skull, Alfred! I. Am. Not. Starving. MYSELF. Savvy?!"

There was a contest of wills and Alfred stood up, emerald eyes locked in a stony embrace with sapphire. A few tense moments into the stand off and Alfred exhaled sharply, turning away and marching out of the room.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?" He didn't get a response, and he ended up bolting after the wayward American. "Oy! Don't you dare ignore me, Alfred!" Alfred spun on his heels as he entered the kitchen.

"I'm finding the car keys. I'd ask you for help, but I know you'd just lie even if you did know where they were." Arthur spluttered in disbelief. The absolute nerve!

"Alfred Jones, don't you dare!" Arthur marched up to him. Alfred towered over him, expression serious.

"Do you really think you could stop me, Arthur?"

_**~SR~**_

Francis sat on the loveseat, Matthew's head resting calmly in his lap. All was peaceful and serene and both were a hairs breadth away from slipping into a deep slumber when Matthew suddenly spoke up.

"I wonder how Alfred is coping?" His voice was a mere whisper, barely breaking through the shroud of silence.

"Hmm?" There was a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing, but the younger man didn't get up.

"With Arthur, I mean. He's never had to deal with this sort of responsibility before. I wonder how he's doing. How they're _both _doing." Francis pondered upon this, the question making him pensive. Despite their volatile relationship, he'd never been able to hide the affection he felt for his stuffy Englishman.

"Hmm. I haven't heard anything from them for a couple of days; not since Alfred texted me that they were leaving the hospital. Hopefully he hasn't killed our little Englishman with his cooking, although considering what Arthur normally cooks anything Alfred makes is probably an improvement..."

There was a quiet chuckle, before Matthew said chastisingly: "Don't be mean. It's not Arthur's fault he can't cook. And my brother can cook, he just doesn't like healthy things so it always ends up being greasy and gross."

"I'm surprised he's lasted this long with his diet."

"Well, not everyone can have a palette quite as refined as yours…" Francis laughed lightly.

"Very true."

"I'm still a bit worried, though. I know Alfred has good intentions, but he's such a child at times that he causes more harm than good." Francis hated seeing that frown on his lover's face and leant over, kissing his forehead in the hope that it would vanish. A heartbeat and a breath later and it faded, but he could feel that concern still emanating from the young man.

"Well, if you're so concerned it can't hurt to pay them a little visit, hmm? They're only just across the channel."

Matthew rolled upright, pecking Francis on the lips, a smile gracing his own.

"That sounds like a good idea."

_**~SR~**_

Just as Alfred was physically throwing Arthur into the passenger's seat, a car drew up the driveway and came to a standstill a couple of metres away. Knowing full well that Arthur wasn't prone to having guests, Alfred paused and unintentionally gave Arthur enough time to wriggle free. Ruffled, he tried to straighten his clothes, scowling when he realised who his unexpected guest was.

"What the hell are you doing here, frog?"

"Mathieu and myself -" at this point, Alfred's mild twin emerged from the other side of the car. He'd been so quiet neither had even noticed he was in the vehicle " - decided it would be fun to pay you a visit. Uh... what exactly are you two doing?"

"We're going to the hospit-"

"No we're not! I told you, I'm fine!"

"You're still not eating!"

"Yes I am!"

"Not enough!"

"Who the hell are you to judge what is and isn't enough?!"

At this moment their argument was cut off. Francis took Arthur's arm, physically restraining him from hitting Alfred smack bang in the face. Instead he was left to simmer, scowling heavily.

"Maybe you two should take this inside?"

"Yes, please. Alfred, give me the car keys." Arthur held his hand out, but he was denied when Alfred simply frowned and put them in his jacket pocket. Led by Francis, with an unyielding hand on his uninjured arm, they made their way back into the house. Once they'd entered the kitchen Arthur was simmering nicely and Alfred was looking vaguely put-out. The pair of them were sat down at the table as Francis leant against a worktop and Matthew perched on a chair near him.

Arthur shrank in on himself as he felt their scrutinising glares rake over him. He knew full well that in the simple shirt and trouser combination that he was wearing the effects of his negligence was glaringly obvious. It was disconcerting to see the concern flickering on their faces; Francis, in particular. It was an unusual situation, to say the least. Mercifully, Francis didn't say anything on the matter, instead turning to look at Alfred.

"What exactly is going on? I know you two have made a national sport out of bickering like an old married couple-"

"-Hey!"

"But there's no need to get physical like that, Alfred. You forget how strong you are. You could potentially do a lot of damage." A guilty look flickered onto Alfred's face and his lower lip jutted out, as it was prone to do when he was a child and felt guilty and/or had realised he'd done something wrong and was thinking of a way out of it. In this instance, Francis was positive it was as a result of the former.

"So?" Francis looked at him expectantly.

"I'm supposed to be taking care of Arthur," he looked pointedly in the scowling man's direction, "and he's totally not eating enough! So I was taking to the hospital, but he's in denial and didn't want to go."

"I'm not in denial about anything! I do not need to go back to the doctor, Alfred. I'm eating just fine."

"No you're not!"

"Do you see what I have to put up with?" Arthur's face was flushed, and he was breathing heavily. Irritation permeated his entire being. "He refuses to listen to me! Screw you, Alfred." He pushed himself out of the chair and left the room, refusing to look at Alfred. Francis sighed, but followed suite whilst gesturing at Matthew to stay with his brother. He pulled the door to after he walked through it, aware that Arthur would probably appreciate the attempt at privacy. It didn't take long for Arthur to start speaking again.

"He seems to think he's knows best when he can barely even take care of himself!"

He watched as the worked up Englishman gesticulated wildly, ranting but at the same time keeping his voice to a reasonable level. He half-wondered if, just perhaps, he didn't quite have the energy to explode like he used to.

"It's not that I don't appreciate it - really - but he just doesn't listen! He's so gung-ho and seems to think that waving a hamburger in front of my face will magically cure everything! And even worse, he seems to be under the impression that I'm off in the head and can't see that something's wrong with me. I know full well that I'm ill, and I see exactly what he sees when I look in the mirror! He's treating me like some invalid."

He sighed. It sounded worn and tired, and he slumped in the armchair, eyes flickering closed as if attempting to block out the world, if only momentarily. Francis felt himself extending a certain amount of pity to the younger man.

"He's only doing it because he cares about you, _mon ami_." Arthur gave a shaky sigh, but didn't open his eyes. Instead he brought up his hand and pressed it against his forehead, rubbing weakly at his face.

"You think I don't know that? But it feels like he's doing more harm than good half the time. I've spent the last few days feeling a breath away from curling up by the toilet and he's still trying to stuff me full to the brim, no matter how much I tell him I don't want it."

"He doesn't know any better."

"Aye, that may be true, but if the idiot is as serious as he claims to be I don't see how he hasn't got it figured out by now."

"Ah, you know our young friend tends to need things spelt out to him. He's as oblivious as they come."

"I did tell him! Multiple times! He doesn't believe me; he thinks this 'illness' has addled my mind so badly I can't be relied upon to tell the truth. If he refuses to trust my own judgment, what on earth else can I do?"

If possible, he seemed to slump even further into the chair. He drew his legs up subconsciously, curling them into his body. Partially to retain warmth, but mostly because of an ancient and unyielding instinct to protect himself. And right now that childish desire was flaring up drastically.

"I know he means well, but he seems to have gotten it into his head that I can't be trusted to take care of myself. I know what's right for my body. I know it may not seem that way after all has been said and done," he took a deep, shaky breath, "but I know I'm not well and I know how it needs to be fixed. I can't say I don't like him being here because, loathe though I am to admit it, having Alfred for company is quite pleasant when he's not being too overbearing… but I wish he'd just listen to me, for once. I want to get better as much as he wants me to." He looked up at Francis, eyes tired and pleading. "I hate being this way. I hate being cold all the time or waking up with bruises just because I slept in the wrong position. I hate feeling tired and I hate getting ill at the drop of a hat. Why can't he realise that?"

Francis walked over and perched on the arm of the chair. It said a lot for Arthur's state when he didn't even give him a chastising look for mistreating his precious furniture. He put a manicured hand on his friend's bony shoulder, and felt the minuscule shift as he leant into the comforting touch.

"He's blinded with worry, Arthur. I don't blame him. When he called me and told me that you were in the hospital and that the doctors were saying you'd been starving yourself I was worried too. You're his friend, maybe even something more-"

"-what's that supposed to mean?" His voice was muffled. Francis carried on, ignoring him.

"-and he just wants you to get well again. He may be going about it in the wrong way, but he means no malice. You just let big brother France fix this, alright?" He noticed the drooping eyes and a soft smile graced his face. He leant over to the dozing Englishman and moved his hand down his arm. It seem to startle him awake, and he used the opportunity to guide him to his feet and out of the room.

Once he was settled in bed - and he'd fallen asleep so quickly that it was genuinely worrying - Francis left him with a tender look and made his way back downstairs, and back to Alfred.

* * *

_**AN: I've never considered myself too amazing at dialogue, but I hope this was all up to scratch! Big brother France has finally got involved...**_

**_Much love to all the people who consistently review my chapters! Every review makes me grin like a loon._**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN:This is late, sorry. Harvest has sort of started (and I work in a grain store) and on top of that I've had some fairly dire writer's block. I still don't think I'm completely over it, but I didn't want this to be any later than it already was.**_

_**A million thanks to WelcometotheNewAge, InvaderPey, Erienn, Froggiecool, KassyMalone, Artemis Fenir and Ariddle-Ascare for reviewing the last chapter!**_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Gliding back into the kitchen as silently as a wraith, Francis took the brief moment in which neither of the boys had noticed his presence to take stock of the scene. Alfred was still sitting at the table, a petulant but somewhat… regretful? expression gracing his face. Evidently he'd heard at least pieces of Arthur's rant. Francis was simply glad that he had the decency to be ashamed. It was more than he afforded to most people; in fact, Arthur was one of the few people alive that was capable of making the headstrong American re-evaluate his words and actions.

Matthew was still perched on his chair, simply staring at his brother in exasperation. Francis was silently grateful that he'd brought up the subject of Arthur and Alfred back in his own home. Otherwise god only knows what damage could have been done had the pair of them not dropped in for this impromptu visit. Matthew turned to face him as he realised his partner had re-entered the room. Alfred didn't move, instead opting to bore a hole in the table.

The Frenchman sighed. He pulled a chair from the table, opposite to where Alfred was sitting.

"You heard that, yes?" Alfred shrugged, but that wasn't good enough. He started to repeat himself: "I said-"

"I heard what you said, and I heard what Artie said too." His usual smile had long since vacated his face, and was replaced with a sullen frown. "I didn't realise he hated having me here so much."

Francis sighed, and realised that he'd only managed to hear the first part of Arthur's mini-breakdown.

"He doesn't hate having you here, Alfred. No, _really_." He cut Alfred off with a look before he could even finish opening his mouth. "What you have to realise is that, regardless to Arthur's current condition, he's still capable of making his own decisions and you should have the common courtesy to respect that, oui?" Alfred snorted but didn't respond. Francis didn't think he'd get anything more out of the sulking youngster, so instead carried on:

"Alfred, you do know that people who have suffered from eating disorders and have starved themselves aren't physically capable of consuming too much food, yes? Their stomachs shrink. You have to slowly increase the amounts. If you try to stuff 'im full immediately you'll just make him sick."

Realisation seemed to dawn in his eyes.

"Nobody told me that!"

"I'm sure you have the internet, Alfred. You could probably spend a little less time playing games today and a little more time researching Arthur's problem, if you're absolutely serious about making him better." Francis' tone was condescending, but he didn't care. It was all good and well for Alfred to declare himself Arthur's caretaker, but he wasn't going to simply stand by and let him cause more harm. Arthur was already in a bad enough state without it being exasperated by someone who didn't have a clue what they were doing.

"I'm the hero! Of course I'm serious!" Francis snorted derisively, and Alfred's face fell again.

"And that's where you're going wrong, Alfred. You may be a 'hero', but that does not make Arthur your damsel and you should not treat him as such. Regardless to his physical state, mentally he is fully aware of what is going on and you should listen to him when he tells you something. And if there are any more problems, you'll have to deal with me… understood?"

Alfred scowled, but after a brief paused nodded. Happy that it had been settled with such little resistance, Francis smiled.

"Now, how about I sort us out some lunch while you and your brother catch up, hmm?"

_**~SR~**_

Arthur had pointedly not looked at Alfred when he had come back down the stairs after his short nap, and Francis was relieved when Alfred didn't push the matter and instead settled down with his brother to play video games. At least he seemed to understand that Arthur still needed a little bit of space to cool down before he started coddling him again.

Francis had whipped up a selection of foods that his ego decided were too gorgeous even for someone as stuck-up as Arthur to reject. As it was, he'd picked out a plate of crepes and curled up on the sofa - as far away from Alfred as possible - and slowly and thoughtfully began chewing. It was clear from the outset that he wasn't going to be eating very much, but Francis understood that as long as he was eating something, the quantities didn't really matter. Once he'd managed just over half the plate and was dozing lightly, a full stomach being something he still was obviously fairly unaccustomed to, Francis had made him take some of the supplements given at the hospital and then left him be. With the two boys close by, he wasn't too concerned about leaving Arthur for a short while, and so vacated to the kitchen. For some quiet, and a chance to think.

He didn't have to think for very long. A quick review of the texts Alfred had sent him whilst Arthur was in the hospital reminded in that, even though Alfred was going about it the wrong way and the wrong reasons, Arthur was still in need of a quick check up. It had been one of the conditions upon leaving the hospital, apparently, and Francis wasn't surprised. He'd seen many times over his long life the damaging effects of long-term starvation, and anything that gave Arthur a reprieve from more problems was a necessity. And although he firmly believed that Alfred had over-reacted, Arthur was still very slight considering the younger nation had been stuffing him to the brim for nearly a week prior. A visit would give Arthur a health check up and possibly some good advice on how to get him putting on weight without making himself sick.

Psyching himself up to tell the no-doubt soon-to-be-pissed Englishman - along with a fortifying glass of wine to steel his nerves, which he consumed in a couple of gulps - he wandered back into the kitchen. Arthur was mostly asleep, and Alfred was completely ignoring him as he battled his brother on the games console.

"We should go to the doctors." This made Arthur stir, bolting awake, although his sleepy eyes betrayed him.

"What?! We already decided that I wasn't going to go!"

"I know. But this isn't because I think you're still starving yourself, Arthur." Francis replied, calmly. " There are an awful lot of health issues that come with prolonged starvation, and it's been almost a week now since you left the hospital. A check up would do you some good, and we can probably get some advice on what sort of things would benefit you the most when making meals. Someone-" he gave a pointed look in Alfred's direction, "- neglected to do this the first time around, so we should endeavour to do it now."

Arthur looked like he was about to fight very much in the same way he'd fought Alfred, but he caught the look in Francis' eyes and slumped in defeat.

He refused to talk, even as Francis manhandled him into some more suitable clothing. The lack of swearing and fighting or accusations of molestation was odd, to say the least, but he still looked fairly tired so Francis put it down to exhaustion.

The car journey back the hospital was done so in a sullen silence. Francis was driving, mainly because he refused to entrust his life in Alfred's hands, and Arthur was sulking in the passenger seat. The twins were in the back; Matthew was staring out of the window, expression carefully blank, and Alfred was playing some handheld game device. Alfred had tried to argue that if Francis was going there was no point in him tagging along, but Francis had shot him down by reminding him that it was _Alfred_ who needed to know things such as dietary necessities, far more than he or Matthew did.

The hospital visit in itself was dullness with a clinical edge. A flash of their identity badges meant no long and boring waits in the hospital waiting room, and they were led by an accommodating nurse into a room where Arthur was prodded with needles, whilst being asked question after question about his diet and how he'd felt physically over the course of the past week. Alfred had received a drabbling lecture on appropriate and inappropriate food types and amounts, whilst Arthur had been lectured on not coming in sooner if he was feeling ill for as long as he had been. In the end, Arthur left with some extra medication, including some to minimise nausea once he started increasing his portion sizes, and an appointment with a nutritionist. Alfred left with a list of foods that would be most beneficial to Arthur and the look of a kicked puppy.

A small mercy was that Arthur's incredibly inhibiting cast was finally removed after an x-ray showed that his broken bones were, for most of the part, either healed or very nearly. As far as Arthur was concerned, it was the only bit of good news all day. At least now he was able to move freely. All he had to be aware of was the occasional tender spot.

The sky was dull and overcast as they made their journey back to Arthur's house. The air was frigid, and the heating in the car was set on full blast as Francis complained bitterly about England's lack of warm weather. Alfred was still ignoring everyone and Arthur was only just conscious, so it was up to Matthew to remind him, gently, that even the countries with nice weather had to suffer a winter at some point.

And then they were home again. Arthur was bundled back into the house and pushed into the living room, then promptly buried under a mountain of duvets and blankets whilst Francis enlisted Alfred's help with getting the woodstove in the hearth going. Francis, being Francis, worked his magic in the kitchen and returned with four cups of steaming hot chocolate and marshmallows, wriggling into the spot next to Arthur and wrapping an arm around his shoulders and he leant back.

"A few more clothes on the floor and this would be perfect, eh, mon Petite Lapin~?" He teased, a salacious grin on his face. It was quickly removed by a fist to the jaw, but in the corner of his eye he saw Alfred get up and frown, so being punched by a weakened Englishman was probably the lesser of two evils. It was nice to get a reaction out of Arthur, if he was honest with himself. For someone usually so loud and grumpy to be so silent and unresponsive made the world feel strangely off-balance.

He spent the next few hours complaining about the cold, British TV, the cold, lack of central heating in English homes, the cold, lack of edible food in Arthur's cupboards and the cold. It didn't take long for Arthur to tell him to 'Piss off and complain in your own damn country!'

Francis and Matthew left before the day was out, Francis' parting words being a stern warning to Arthur as to what would happen if he didn't take care of himself and even sterner words to Alfred about exactly what would happen to him if he started treating Arthur the way he had before. Then the two lovers had left the tense pair on the doorstep, waving as the car left the drive.

An awkward silence permeated the air. Arthur felt his nose freezing, and watched steamed air force past his chapped lips. Loathe though he was to admit it, Francis did have something of a point about the cold.

Just as Arthur was about to open his mouth to break the silence, Alfred spun around and slouched back into the house, shoulders hunched. Blinking away the shock at this abruptness, Arthur made to follow, only to find the living room door closed and the sound of a game blaring loudly from the TV. He was about to push the door open, give Alfred a kick and then settle back down on the sofa, before realisation crashed down on him.

_Alfred didn't want to be here any more._

That could be the only explanation for the cold shoulder he'd been receiving ever since Francis had come over. Alfred didn't want to be here, and was only sticking around because he either felt obligated to stay or was too scared of what a pissed off Frenchman would do to him if he decided to leave.

He took a deep, steadying breath and leant his head against the door. Alfred's game play was lacking the customary loud yelling and occasional cuss word, a very disconcerting sensation. Deciding that he didn't want to intrude upon someone who so clearly didn't want to be in his company, Arthur sighed and instead made his slow way up the stairs. Between the frog's unexpected visit and the trip to the hospital, his day had been thoroughly exhausting.

By the time he'd finally collapsed in his bed he noticed that his stomach was grumbling slightly, and he realised he'd had nothing to eat since the food Francis had cooked as a late breakfast several hours previously. Too tired and fed up to even consider going back downstairs - and completely unwilling to force his presence on Alfred when he was clearly in such a bad mood with him - Arthur sighed and rolled over, dragging the duvet around him and clamping his eyes shut.

It wasn't like he'd never gone to bed hungry before, but it had been more years than he could even remember since he'd felt the hunger clenching in his stomach in this way. If it wasn't so uncomfortable, it would have been reassuring. As it was, it just made him even more miserable.

It was some time before he managed to slip into sleep.

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**_AN: Not much to say. Google Chrome hates the English version of words, thought :( All those read lines and no misspellings in sight..._**


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: Guess who's back! Nothing long or amazing, but things are starting to wind down so I had some spare time this week. Thanks to all the reviewers, and anyone still bothering to follow this silly thing!**_

_**On a serious note - FF have put this stupid thing in place that's supposed to stop copyright infringement which means you can't highlight or copy within stories. Obviously this is stupid as all hell because anyone who wants to copy a story can just find other way around it, so it just penalises people who used it to quote for reviews and search unfamiliar terms. Voice your distaste on their twitter or on their blog. I have!**_

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**Chapter 9**

A few hours after he'd slumped on Arthur's sofa and taken out all of his frustrations on virtual communists, Alfred found his most recent match at a finish and himself at something of a loose end. Huffing, he leant against the back of the couch and surveyed the room. There was the usual mess caused by one of his gaming sessions, as well as Arthur's blankets and duvets from earlier on in the day. It was still fairly warm, embers from the fire still sizzling in the wood-burner. The closed door had trapped all the heat.

He hadn't seen or heard Arthur since Francis and his brother had left, which threw him slightly. Arthur was never one to stay quiet, and he certainly wasn't one to tolerate insolence, especially from Alfred. For him not only to have ignored Alfred's attitude earlier, but to have left him completely alone after he'd slammed a door in the older man's face... For all of his rants and criticisms, Arthur only bothered to chastise people because he cared about them, cliché though it sounded. People he genuinely disliked received the occasional biting word and a cold shoulder. The day Arthur went silent on you was the day you knew you'd royally fucked up.

_He must really hate me now..._

Wallowing in self pity for a few more minutes, a groaning stomach finally dragged him out of his place on the exceptionally comfy sofa and out into the cold hallway. He made sure to turn the TV and console off before he left the room, not particularly eager to receive a lecture on wasting electricity. Although there was no guarantee that Arthur would even talk to him again after how he'd acted earlier, he didn't want to risk it. Arthur had a tongue like a whip, something he knew from many personal experiences.

Slouching into the kitchen and expecting to find an irate Englishman, he was surprised to find it in the same state that Francis had left it several hours earlier: dishes were drying on the rack next to the sink, fairy lights were still lit on the dresser and there was the faintest hint of cinnamon in the air. Every appliance was flicked off, and a touch-test of the electric kettle showed that it hadn't been boiled for quite some time.

He frowned.

Arthur wasn't in the living room or the kitchen, and had he been in any of the other downstairs rooms Alfred would have noticed. That left the upstairs, which consisted of the bathroom and the bedrooms, and Alfred hadn't heard the immersion click on or the sound of running water, so that ruled out Arthur having had a bath. Alfred sighed, fiddling with the bridge of his glasses. All other possibilities ruled out, that meant that Arthur was in his bedroom.

The distinct lack of a burning aroma in the air told Alfred that Arthur must have gone upstairs fairly soon after Francis had left, and the house had been completely silent so the exhausted Brit had obviously decided to go to bed. Alfred didn't really blame him; although Arthur's trip to the hospital had been quicker than most, he'd been prodded and tested for far longer than anyone found pleasant, and combined with his current state it must have been a pretty tiring experience.

He left the kitchen as it was and silently made his way up the stairs, careful to avoid any of the known creaky steps. Treading on light feet down the carpeted hallway, the door to Arthur's room was open barely a fraction. Pausing only to hear the sound of soft breathing, Alfred pushed the door open. Soft light from the hallway flooded in as Alfred entered the threshold. His steps faltered, fearful that the sudden light would awaken the sleeping man before him, but Arthur slept silently on.

There was something resembling an ache in his heart as he looked down, but he couldn't quite place why. Arthur had nothing more than a slight blanket cast over his resting form and it simply served to emphasise just how fragile he was. His skin was pale, and dark shadows mottled across where it was stretched over prominent bone. In nothing more than a thin t-shirt and some bottoms, the bruises from his time at the hospital were stark and jarring against his porcelain skin. Underneath the thin fabric he could see dips and rises where his ribs were sticking out. He'd seen all this already, but it never seemed any less shocking.

There was a crease on Arthur's brow, and Alfred realised with a pang that the last time he'd eaten had been before Francis had left. The pang was quickly replaced with a burning guilt.

He'd failed at taking care of him. Again.

He knew it was creepy to remain there watching him, but at the same time he simply couldn't draw his gaze away from the serene yet so very wrong scene in front of him. Arthur wasn't supposed to be fragile - he was bull-headed and stubborn and so very proud. And yet he'd caved so easily to Alfred's demands to take care of him, surrendering himself even though Alfred knew he hated being the centre of such attention and hated being cared for by the person he'd once raised even more. Alfred wasn't sure exactly what that meant in the scheme of things, but he was sure it meant something. A faint hope arose, although it didn't fully drown out the guilt.

As silently as he could manage, Alfred ghosted out of the room and back downstairs. His top priority was to keep Arthur warm and comfortable, so he retrieved the duvets and blankets from the living room and took them up to his room, gently spreading them over the sleeping man. He felt a smidgen of relief when he not only remained asleep, but the frowned on his face lessened a little bit. Pausing to watch a little longer, he caught himself and mentally kicked himself for dawdling. He'd already spent too much time sulking when he was supposed to be making Arthur better. He needed to get his arse into gear and do this properly. He couldn't afford to be a petulant child when Arthur was in need of his help.

Back downstairs he began to rummage though the kitchen cabinets, hoping to find something that Arthur could eat that was included on the list of foods he'd been given by the doctor (which he'd stuck on the fridge with a load of magnets so he couldn't lose it). Unfortunately, due to a combination of not having shopped for several days and Francis commandeering the kitchen, there was much left that Alfred could do anything with.

He sighed and paused for a moment as he thought about what to do next. Takeaway was the most tempting option, but that most certainly wasn't on Alfred's list, and he didn't want to make Arthur any sicker than he already was. Not to mention Arthur would probably kick him out of the house for good if he tried to feed him burgers or Chinese. So really he had no choice other than to cook him something himself.

Despite everyones' belief, Alfred was actually more than capable of cooking, and he could even do it rather well. He just preferred fast food because it was the lazy approach. He never boasted about it because he knew it would rile Arthur up, and for some reason that just didn't settle well with him. Not that he had an issue with getting the little Brit annoyed, but cooking seemed like a bit of a cruel thing to pick on him over. He'd never say it to Arthur himself, but he knew from talking to his brothers and simply watching them that it wasn't actually Arthur's fault that he couldn't cook - it was just something inherent in his family (if he'd asked around a bit more, he'd have actually been informed that it was a side-effect of those with magic in their blood, but he wouldn't have believed this anyway). It always felt a little bit cruel to taunt the older nation about something completely beyond his control.

Sighing to himself, he realised he wouldn't be able to do anything with what little he had access to in the kitchen. And Arthur desperately needed something healthy and filling. Deciding to take his chances, he grabbed his coats and Arthur's cars keys and decided a quick trip down to the local supermarket was necessary.

**_~SR~_**

It was disconcerting to fall asleep in one state and awake to find yourself in another. Arthur awoke to find himself drowning in duvets and blankets when he was absolutely certain he'd fallen sleep with little more than a sheet over him. The murkiness of sleep slowly and lethargically vacated his body. It was warm and comfortable, and he quickly decided that he didn't want to leave the bed, so he buried his head in the pillows and instead pondered upon his next course of action.

His stomach was still complaining, but it wouldn't kill him to ignore it a little bit longer.

He was just about to drift off again when the door was pushed open. Growling quietly, Arthur sat up to take a look at the intruder. He didn't let his face show it, but he was surprised to see it was Alfred, and that he'd actually left the living room to come up and see him. Especially as he'd already made it very clear that he didn't even want to be at Arthur's house any more.

Arthur grit his teeth sullenly. Clearly he'd only stayed to satisfy his hero complex. Well, Arthur certainly wasn't going to indulge him.

Glancing down, Arthur realised that the younger nation was carefully carrying a bowl of something. As he moved closer to the bed it became apparent that it was soup.

"I'm not hungry. Get out of my room." He flinched backwards as Alfred practically shoved the bowl in his face. He was being as brash as ever, then.

"You've got to eat! C'mon-"

"Piss off!" Arthur pushed it aside, but Alfred had fast responses and a good grip, so despite all the turbulence the soup managed to remain in the bowl. It was then promptly slammed on the bedside table, out of harm's way. Before Arthur even realised what was going on, Alfred was on the bed and on top of him.

Straddling him. His face flushed red.

"What the hell?! Get off me!" He tried to kick and hit his way out, but Alfred's weight had him pinned down and strong arms soon had his flailing fists restrained. He froze, feeling Alfred's full weight on top of him. The boy was frowning.

As he was forced to relax under the other nation, Arthur realised just how fast and erratic his breathing was, and it shocked him to feel shaky breaths catching in the back of his throat.

The only thing that made this worse was Alfred's silence.

A few minutes passed before Arthur was breathing steadily again, and he found his body relaxing quite unwillingly. Having Alfred on top of his shouldn't have had this affect, but being pinned by the younger nation was almost calming.

"You okay, Arthur?" Alfred's voice tentatively broke the strained silence.

He nodded. There was a slight tremble. Alfred sighed, but relaxed his grip on Arthur's wrists, which remained where they were despite Arthur's instincts screaming at him to snap them back to his side. He refused to meet Alfred's piercing gaze.

"Can you get off me now?"

"I dunno. You gonna freak out on me again?"

"I won't." He said it as earnestly as possible, hoping to convey what his face couldn't.

He felt the weight shift, and Alfred moved over to his left side. A strange sensation fluttered beneath his rib cage.

"So, what was all that about?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"I think you freaking out just because of some soup is pretty important, actually. Do you feel sick?" He looked worried.

"No."

"Do you want to go back to the hospital?"

"_No_." Arthur replied, vehemently.

"So what's the matter?"

"I _told _you, nothing's the matter."

"Are you upset with me?" Arthur scoffed.

"Now why would I be upset with you?" There was a hint of sarcasm, and for once Alfred managed to pick up on it. His face fell.

"I'm sorry Artie, I really, really am."

"For what, exactly?" Despite the kicked puppy look Alfred was sporting, Arthur felt decidedly unsympathetic. His stomach was aching, he was cold and tired and Alfred had made the last few hours a misery and the last few days an utter pain, despite all his apparent good intentions. And good intentions meant very little to Arthur, especially if they just made things worse.

"For being rude. For hurting you. For making you upset... for everything. And I'm sorry for being such an idiot, most of all."

The younger man looked positively forlorn. Arthur had always thought having him admit to being an idiot would be incredibly satisfying, but instead it just felt cold and hollow. He cursed as he felt himself caving. He was stupid to think he'd ever be able to stay angry when Alfred looked so miserable and vulnerable.

"Fine," he grunted, looking away. "You're forgiven. Now piss off." He flinched as he felt calloused hands on his face, but the touch was soft. Alfred turned the Brit's face, forcing them to look each other in the eye.

"I really, truly am sorry, Arthur. I should have listened to you and been more considerate." Arthur felt worryingly exposed under Alfred's gaze. "I felt so bad when you said you'd been feeling ill since I came. I thought you wouldn't want me here any more because I was just making it worse. I thought you'd be happier without me." Arthur sighed, lifting his own hands and removing Alfred's.

"You're an idiot. And a royal prat, too." He took a deep breath. "But trust me, lad, if I wanted you gone I'd tell you straight out. You're loud and rude and insufferable-" his face softened "- but you make this house a bit brighter, and it's nice to have company. So don't be too harsh on yourself, alright?"

A small smile broke though on Alfred's face, much to Arthur's relief. However, the touching moment was broken when Arthur's stomach decided to speak up. Alfred chuckled, before rolling off the bed and up onto his feet.

"So! You hungry?"

"Yes, but I doubt the soup will be much good now."

"I'll warm it up. Don't go anywhere!" He dodged a pillow thrown at his face. Laughing lightly, he bolted out of the room. Arthur didn't try to disguise the happiness he felt, smiling as he leant back down into the bed.

"I wouldn't even if I could, Al."

* * *

**_AN: I've had a wee bit of cider, so apologies for any ridiculous errors. I did double check, but that rarely ever stops me from making them :P_**


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